"My wife smiled through our family portrait while hiding a broken arm—then I zoomed in on the hard edge under her glove."

The grand chandelier was lit, casting an amber glow over the polished mahogany furniture.

Leo Navarro walked into the room wearing a fresh dark suit, holding a leather folder under his arm. He looked confident, relaxed, holding a warm mug of coffee.

"Dominic," Leo called out cheerfully, stepping across the Persian rug. "I’ve got the final terms for the Falco agreement, but like I said last night, we should hit their Jersey hub first to show strength before we sign—"

Leo stopped dead in his tracks.

Sitting on the velvet sofa near the fireplace was Clara. She wore an elegant burgundy wool dress, her dark hair pinned back, her posture tall and unyielding.

Her left arm rested in a sleek, hard black fiberglass cast resting in her lap.

Beside her sat Dominic, his dark suit crisp, his gray eyes locked onto Leo with a lethal, unblinking focus.

Standing along the walls of the drawing room were six broad-shouldered Carretti enforcers, led by Sal Bruno.

Leo’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, his eyes darting frantically from Clara’s black cast to the armed guards stationed at every exit.

"Clara..." Leo stammered, trying to maintain his relaxed cadence. "My God... what happened to your arm?"

"You tell me, Leo," Clara spoke softly. Her velvet voice carried a razor-sharp authority that echoed cleanly off the high ceilings. "You saw it three nights ago in the Meridian garage. You're the one who told me to hide it."

Leo backed up a half-step, adjusting his silk tie with a trembling hand. "Clara, you're mistaken... I saw you get bumped, but I had no idea—"

"Save it, Leo," Dominic interrupted.

Dominic stood up from the sofa. The sheer physical presence of the Don made the room feel instantly cold. He pulled a remote from his pocket and tapped a button.

The grand projection screen on the drawing room wall dropped down.

The video footage from the Meridian garage filled the screen—showing Leo gesturing to the attacker, the blow striking Clara’s arm, and Leo’s subsequent private conversation with Tommy Vane.

Then, the doors behind Leo opened.

Two enforcers pushed a bruised, handcuffed man into the room. Tommy Vane.

"Recognize him, Leo?" Sal Bruno asked flatly. "Tommy here just signed a full written confession detailing the fifty thousand dollars you wired to his sister's account in Brooklyn to stage the hit."

Leo’s leather folder slipped from his hand, crashing flat against the hardwood floorboards, legal papers scattering across the rug.

His face drained of every drop of color, turning an ugly, paper-white shade of green. His jaw sagged open, his knees shaking so violently he had to reach out to grab the back of an armchair for support.

"Dominic... please!" Leo whimpered, his voice cracking into a high, pathetic squeak as he fell flat onto his knees right on the Persian rug. "Listen to me! The Falcos were pushing us out! We were losing the docks! I did it to unite the family! I didn't mean for Clara to get hurt! Tommy missed—!"

"You put a heavy iron bar near my head, Leo," Dominic spoke softly, every word dropped like a heavy block of ice. "And when my wife took the blow meant for me, you used her love for me to force her into silence while her bone was broken."